


Hunting Monsters

by CamilleDuDemon, Saetha



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Cuddling & Snuggling, Eskel Whump (The Witcher), Guilt, Hurt Eskel (The Witcher), Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Lambert (The Witcher), Hurt Vesemir (The Witcher), Hurt/Comfort, Kaer Morhen (The Witcher), M/M, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Torture, Witcher cuddle pile, Witchers are the perfect killing machines, and it's terrifying when you're on the receiving end of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 05:28:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30016848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamilleDuDemon/pseuds/CamilleDuDemon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha
Summary: "This potion here,” the mage says, slightly shaking the vial, “Is a brew of my own invention. An ingenious little thing, I must say. I’ve designed it specifically for you, you know? You must feel flattered that I’ve lost precious hours of sleep just to take good care of you, Wolf.”Wolf.It feels almost insulting to be called this name from the very man who has had him chained and tortured.*Eskel gets caught and tortured by a mage. The last thing he remembers before waking up again is a spell ripping his mind apart. Strangely enough, he seems fine now and makes his way back to his family at Kaer Morhen. Except - things are not as they seem, and soon take a darker turn as the others realise that his mind is no longer his own.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 4
Kudos: 45





	Hunting Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> The first one in what is hopefully going to be a long and fruitful series of collaborations between us! We had TONS of fun writing together (turns out, we share exactly ONE braincell and it's mostly focused on how to whump our wolf boys) and discovered that our styles mesh really well. Enjoy! :)

Eskel rouses from his dark, terror-filled slumber with a start, the rush of blood in his ears almost deafening. 

At least he knows where he is, however, the thought isn’t comforting at all _. _

He tries to move, or at least to  _ wriggle, _ to test how much mobility is left in his battered body and, as he suspected, there isn’t much anymore, at least in his arms and left leg. He’s almost sure that his right shoulder has been dislocated at some point, but that kind of hurt is something he can tolerate surprisingly well. The leg is a completely different story, though. Even if Eskel is used to witness any kind of  _ ugly thing _ life has to offer, the sight of his leg makes his stomach churn so hard he’s barely able to turn his head so as to spill the nonexistent content of his stomach - it’s just froth and bile, at this point - on the cold, hard floor instead of miserably puking all over himself.

A wave of dizziness overcomes him, and though restrained like a vicious beast, he’s able to rest his head against the damp wall at his back. It’s a nice change of scenery, though, to be bound sitting down instead of standing. He’s not sure he’d be able to stand at all, with his leg looking like a shapeless mass of mangled muscles, tendons and protruding shards of bone.

The dimeritium shackles and chains are burning bloody, blackened grooves into his flesh, tainting his blood and making him feel  _ sick,  _ weak, just like when he was a young boy and he had managed to catch pneumonia during a particularly harsh Kaedweni winter. He’s running a fever, he’s sure of it. His blood is boiling, but at the same time a vicious cold is crawling through his bones, making him shudder and snap his jaws shut so hard his brain rattles with the force of the impact. His senses are dulled to the point of uselessness; his vision is blurry, every shape and figure doubled and  _ swinging _ , exacerbating the nausea that seems to have settled permanently in his empty stomach, and his hearing is by no means witcher-sharp, on the contrary. Besides his blood rushing a tad too fast not to be worrying, he can’t hear a damn thing. Not the scurrying of rats on the floor, nor the steady, almost relaxing sound of water trickling down the insanely humid walls, let alone the presence of his captors nearby. Although, he could rely on his nose for that. The man  _ \-  _ no, not the man,  _ the mage  _ \- wears a distinctive cologne, some hideous concoction that hits hard on Eskel’s nostrils, but even his enhanced olfactory sense seems to be affected by the presence of dimeritium particles in his blood. If he wasn’t feeling so utterly  _ shitty,  _ Eskel would curse out loud. 

“Wolf.”

It’s not easy to sneak up on a witcher, but Eskel has to admit that the mage has an easy game of doing so while he’s practically deprived of both his senses and his magic. The pounding in his ears intensifies, carrying along with it the beginnings of the umpteenth migraine.

How long has he been held captive in this fucking dungeon? Eskel can’t say for sure. He was just minding his own damn business, following the clues on a particularly though contract he was to carry out before getting ready for his early-winter trek back to Kaer Morhen, until-

_ Until he wasn’t anymore. _

He snarls at the mage, he can’t help it. A lance of pain shoots through him immediately after, and - although humiliating - he instinctively tries to curl up in a ball and become one with the filthy stone floor. Sadly, there’s nothing much he can do being all tied up and magically restrained, so he endures.  _ He endures.  _

He endures when the mage grabs his chin and forces his head up, staring into his eye and murmuring something. He endures the stabbing pain it sends through his head, as if something had extended its claws and was rooting around in there, although he screams when it feels like someone is scratching at his scalp from the inside out. He endures the slap that follows, that sends his head flying back against the wall with enough force to cause a minor concussion in any ordinary human. 

Eskel can taste the coppery tang of fresh blood blooming on his tongue where he has bit his cheek. It’s not his brightest moment when he spits it in the mage’s face, in the vague hopes that the man might simply knock him out in retaliation, grant him just a little reprieve from the living hell he has found himself in. He steels himself for the pain that is surely to follow, tries to conjure up the memory of Kaer Morhen, of his brothers, of Vesemir’s smile, Lambert’s laughter, and the warmth of Geralt’s arms around him instead of this fucking nightmare he’s found himself in.

He has endured it all, he will endure this, too. To keep them safe. Keep them alive. 

“So much fight in you. So much  _ spite _ . Admirable.” Eskel can see a blurry movement when the mage wipes his bloody spit off his cheek. “But you are close. Just a little more, I think.”

The mage makes a gesture and Eskel can see two vague outlines approaching him as the mage steps back. He turns his head to the side until his scars scrape uncomfortably against the stonen wall and closes his eyes. 

The first hit catches him in his aching shoulder and he groans when he can feel his bones grind against each other in a way they definitely shouldn’t.  _ Like a mortar grinding herbs in a pestle _ , his half-hysterical mind supplies, and he almost chokes out a laugh. That seems to anger his captors even more, as another punch quickly follows the first. Using fists and wooden truncheons to hit him is as unimaginative as they come, but Eskel has to admit, it is terrifyingly effective. He doesn’t even try to lift his head or open his eyes when they are done. 

There is blood dripping down from his mouth onto his chest, and it is curiously warm, the one sensation that breaks through the haze of pain and dimeritium in his mind. The mage’s cologne wafts into his nostrils when he forces his face up again, runs his fingers down the side of his cheek in the grotesque mockery of a gentle touch.

“That should be enough. Bring him over.” The mage’s voice is barely more than a vague echo at the edges of his perception. One of the two mage’s goons grabs his arm, jostling his dislocated shoulder and Eskel bites back another scream. The other unchains the shackles around his wrists from the wall behind him and if he was in a better condition, if he still had any strength left, Eskel would’ve tried to fight and flee. 

As it is, the two goons try to drag him up until he’s standing, and the pain that shoots through Eskel’s mangled leg is so all-encompassing that he does, finally, black out for a few merciful seconds. 

When he wakes back up again, he is being dragged across the floor. Time becomes vague and unreliable as he keeps blacking out when his injuries are being jostled by the flagstones on the ground. What is probably only a few seconds in reality seems to last forever, until he is being lifted up with all the grace of a sack of potatoes and deposited on some sort of smooth surface. A table perhaps, although his senses are too untrustworthy to tell. The stench of pain and fear is soaked into it, so strong that even he can still smell it. They roll him onto his back and fasten the manacles around his wrists and ankles to his sides. An iron collar clicks shut around his throat. Iron, not more dimeritium, which Eskel is sure would have rendered him unconscious immediately. He doesn’t even know whether he should be grateful or not. 

“Hold his head.” 

Rough, big, scarred fingers dig holes into his livid skin and skull as someone forces his head to stay as still as it can while the mage rummages through an ominous set of vials arranged in an orderly fashion on a -- whatever it is, Eskel is in no position of philosophizing on the differences between a shelf, a cart and a tea table.

He bares his teeth with an absolutely feral growl when he sees the mage grinning and gently shaking the pale amber fluid inside a rounded glass vial. When the mage uncorks it, he gets only the subtlest whiff of herbs, bitter and pungent, something that in his experience doesn’t bode well at all.

“You know what this is, Wolf?” He asks mockingly, sniffing the content of the ampoule with a smug smile on his pale, thin lips. Eskel’s answer comes through gritted teeth, the steady hands pinning him down becoming even more vicious in their grip.

“No.”

The smug smile is still there when the mage approaches him, his robes swirling around his feet and swiping against the floor.  _ Why do mages always have to be so dramatic,  _ he ends up wondering, but this time he doesn’t feel like chuckling, being more than aware about how deep in shit he’s swimming. Stroking the iron collar, the mage takes his sweet time to size Eskel up, to scrutinize him, no doubt to include his observations into some sort of journal;  _ “Hideous mutants and how to break them, a handy guide”.  _ Again, Eskel finds his fangs bared almost unwillingly, but there’s no way to escape the soft, almost ironically fatherly touch that burns a hot trail against his clammy cheek.

“Ah, I was sure you didn’t, Wolf, but what can I say, I find rhetorical questions an exceptionally stimulating part of any intellectual game. Though we haven’t talked much, now, have we? And, mind me, not by my choice. I was ready to listen to  _ all  _ your beautiful tales of death and adventure but, alas, you’re not the talkative type…”

The sentence hangs in the stale air like a cloud of acrid smoke in a badly aerated room, then it falls and an unnerving silence follows. Last chance to speak up, then. To give away the most wanted secret of all, to answer the most asked question: where is the Witchers’ Trail? 

_ Where is Kaer Morhen? _

The mage has asked countless times if the library up there still hosts a copy of Alzur and Malaspina’s work on genetic manipulation and advanced human anatomy - and many other works that Eskel finds so utterly blasphemous he can’t even think about them without gagging in disgust. Truth is, he doesn’t know if any are left at the keep. Still, he has stubbornly refused to give away any information, enduring the pain that has come afterwards with remarkable stoicism, showing the mage what a mutated body could take before giving in to the merciful oblivion of shock. It never came fast enough, by the way. It never  _ comes  _ fast enough.

“What’s in that vial?” He hears himself asking, his voice husky and dry as if someone has forced a fistful of sand down his scorched throat.

The mage sighs, rolling his eyes.

“See? You’re not the talkative type. And, frankly, I find your commitment to  _ martyrdom  _ quite boring, Wolf. I get it, you’re loyal, but for  _ what?”  _ There’s a long, excruciating beat in which the mage looks very much focused on finding the answer by himself, but as quick as it came it’s gone, the morose frown giving way again to that grin that Eskel would very much like to obliterate from existence with his own fists. “Doesn’t matter, though. You’re giving me what I need, Wolf, whether you want to cooperate or not. This potion here,” he says, slightly shaking the vial, “Is a brew of my own invention. An ingenious little thing, I must say. I’ve designed it specifically for you, you know? You must feel  _ flattered  _ that I’ve lost precious hours of sleep just to take good care of you, Wolf.”

_ Wolf. _

It feels almost insulting to be called this name from the very man who has had him chained and tortured, and Eskel does really wish he could cover his ears so as not to hear it anymore.

“What’s in that vial,” he tries again, doing his best to convey all the disgust and spite and anger that’s fueling his battered body right now. Sticky, frothy saliva dribbles down his chin as his attempt at spitting gets diverted by a surge of magic that tingles unpleasantly against his skin.

“So tight-lipped when it comes to answers to give, but so greedy on asking questions himself!” An irritating  _ hmpf  _ sound escapes the mage’s lips. If looks could kill, he would have already dropped dead under the intensity of Eskel’s hate. “Very well. This brew is, so to say, a  _ catalyst.  _ Since your lot is mildly resistant to magic, I thought I had to take precautions against any kind of  _ hitch  _ that could spoil months of planning. Hence my special brew, Wolf, made with the finest dimeritium,” he pompously announces, as if he’s declaiming a recipe at the King’s table, “rare herbs and a variety of mushrooms that only I am able to grow on the whole Continent. Smells good, but I bet it tastes even better! Keep his mouth open,” he orders, and his goons obey, of course they do, snapping Eskel’s jaw open with a horrible crunching sound.

Eskel is very much determined not to swallow - he can’t imagine what dimeritium can do inside him, since direct contact with his skin is enough to leave permanent scarring and hurt like fucking hell - but he’s compelled to by his own treacherous body when he’s almost drowning in the godsdamned fluid, toxins and dimeritium scorching their way to his lungs and nose before he has to give up, gagging on the foul aftertaste and feeling so sore he’s sure he’s swallowing shards of glass.

When he coughs, he tastes blood on his tongue, his entire being on fire and every single tender spot on his flesh biting at him excruciatingly. He tries to speak; a wet, gurgling sound escapes his lips instead, a rivulet of thick, dark blood running down the corner of his mouth. The mage smiles down at him and, merciful Melitele, this time Eskel doesn’t even try to shy away from his fever-bright inquisitive gaze.

“Didn’t I tell you, Wolf? You’re going to help me. I don’t give a single shit about your opinion on the matter.”

Pain explodes white-hot and searing behind Eskel’s eyes - yes, even the missing one  _ hurts,  _ and that’s the worst kind of ghost-pain he has ever experienced - and for a single, terrible, split second Eskel thinks he has lost his mind to the pain, his thoughts racing a mile a minute, spiraling,  _ hurting _ as they hit against the crystal-frail walls of his skull, the pressure unbearable, shattering, and the screams, oh, the screams-

Is he screaming? He can’t tell. The light is so white and so blinding. He chokes on his own spit and blood and black dots start to dance in the white, flickering lights he can’t help but watch intently as they disappear and resurface, disappear and resurface, time stretching out impossibly as he finds himself floating in a non-space filled to the brim with stillness and void. The voices inside and outside his head are muffled and distant, gentle caresses against his abused eardrums.

_ Geralt. _

He thinks about Geralt. He has to focus really hard only to  _ recall  _ Geralt’s features in the first place. White hair. Strands of silk. Calloused but unbelievably gentle hands stroking his face, his warm tongue caressing the notch in his ruined lip. His racing heartbeat evens out as Geralt kisses the pain away, a steady hand on his chest to help him with his labored breath.

_ Eskel. _

Who is Eskel? 

_ Wolf. _

A Wolf. Why is he a wolf? His lips curl slightly against the faint pressure of Geralt’s mouth tenderly taking care of him. Provided that he remembers who this Geralt, this man who’s kissing him, is.

_ Kill. _

A witcher’s got to do what he’s got to do. Killing monsters. Keeping humans safe. Getting rid of the filth plaguing the world. The pain bites back again, unbearable, impossible for him to tolerate it any longer. He wishes,  _ he longs  _ for the merciful oblivion of shock to reclaim him, whining loud and high like a wounded pup, biting at his own tongue, thrashing against the restraints keeping him still. His muscles scream, strained and pulled. If there has ever existed a  _ before,  _ he’s sure he has never felt so much pain all at once.

A faint, unrecognizable voice in the corner of his mind whispers that no average human would have ever survived this kind of pain.

Ah, yes, a witcher. He’s a witcher. A mutant.  _ He endures. _

Luckily enough, his body goes tired long before his mind, and he blacks out with a small, pitiful sound in the back of his throat, the welcoming darkness engulfing him in their pleasant, warm embrace as he’s still trying to make sense of what has just happened.

***

The first thing Eskel notices when he wakes up is the sun on his face and the smell of a horse nearby. 

He jerks out of pure reflex, still expecting to be bound, for this to be but another fiendish scheme that the mage is tormenting him with. Instead of the icy pull of the dimeritium on his wrist, however, there is only fresh air and grass under his fingertips. 

Something snorts next to him and the smell of horse intensifies, before something nibbles gently at his face. Eskel forces at least one eye to open and reaches up, surprised to find that all that seems left of the fact that his shoulder was dislocated is just a faint ache in the joint. His fingers find Scorpion’s familiar face and fur as the stallion continues his ministrations, evidently trying to make sure that Eskel is still alive. 

He is  _ alive _ . 

The thought rushes into him at full speed. He is alive, not dead, not cut up and tossed in a ditch somewhere to rot, but alive and feeling comparatively well. His body aches, but the once flayed flesh around his wrists is now simply a ring of scars, his broken ribs knitted together again, his torn skin no longer bleeding. Even his leg - Eskel swallows thickly when he remembers the pulpy mess it had been, the swollen caricature of a limb, really - looks normal. There is pain when he moves it, yes, but it’s the pain of an old injury, not that of an appendage that could at best be amputated. They’ve even returned his glass eye.

For just a second, he wonders if the entire event was nothing more than a nightmare that he was caught in, a special sort of torture, or some cruel man’s idea of a prank. But no, the scars on his body are real enough, the taste of dimeritium and his screams still coating the inside of his mouth. Magic, then, it has to be. 

Scorpion nickers, and bends his head to give Eskel a friendly shove, as if he cannot wait to be far away from here. Eskel is inclined to share his wish. 

“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, voice still gravelly, scratching Scorpion on his favourite spot at the side of his head. The stallion is already saddled, he realises, and his saddlebags are in a neat pile next to him. The drink of water he digs from it barely seems to improve the quality of his voice when he murmurs little reassurances at Scorpion, but at least it makes his throat feel less like the surface of a rasp, and more like something that might belong to an actual person. 

There is one thing left, however, one thing that he needs to know before he can set off again. Eskel arranges his aching limbs in the best approximation to his usual meditation pose that he can muster. Then he takes a deep, shaky breath, and closes his eyes. 

He probes his mind, slowly and carefully, examines his thoughts and memories. The recollection of the days spent in the mage’s dungeon makes his chest hurt and heart speed up with the remembered agony and the bone-deep despair brought by the knowledge that he might never make it out alive. Eskel clenches his teeth and pushes the emotions aside, like he was taught again and again during his time before the Path. There is...something there, something strange in his mind, like a scab that he cannot help but pull. It is tied to the dimeritium, tied to the thought of Geralt kissing him, tied to - 

A tremor travels through his body and he jerks again. The strangeness is gone. Was it ever there in the first place? He can’t remember. The white-haired stranger kissing him...not, not a stranger. Geralt.  _ Geralt _ . His brothers. His family. Kaer Morhen. Yes, he needs to get home, back to Kaer Morhen. The other Wolves will be missing him, wondering where he is. 

_ Wolf _ .

He doesn’t know who the voice in his head belongs to, but it has to be either Vesemir or one of his brothers. Nobody else would ever call him that. 

Eskel shakes his head and slowly climbs to his feet, leaning against Scorpion to take the weight off his aching leg when the stallion immediately wanders close. All he can do now is to put the past behind him, to try and heal, to move on. 

Home, he will go home. He’ll be safe there. He’ll have time to recover.

_ Wolf _ .

_ Home _ .

***

Geralt can’t stand it. The raw, unbridled energy hitting him in waves, Lambert’s nervous pacing, the slightly quickened beating of his heart...it’s all too much, all at once. He sighs heavily, leaning against the huge axe he was using to chop some firewood, in a vain attempt at calming his nerves.

_ “Vain”  _ is the keyword here.

Lambert flashes him a glance, halting his pacing for the tiniest second but getting back at it almost immediately, his nostrils flaring slightly, discreetly, to catch even the faintest molecule of Eskel’s scent in the crispy afternoon air. 

Winter is coming fast, daylight being swallowed in the darkness of dusk earlier and earlier by the day. Unsure about what to do, Geralt fiddles about with the axe, carving new patterns into the already mangled stump they use as a chopping board for firewood, trying to focus all of his attention on the satisfying crunching sound the dry wood makes when he splinters it methodically, chewing at the soft lining of his mouth until he can taste the coppery tang of blood on his tongue.

Apparently, though, munching at his own flesh and butchering some innocent wood doesn’t have the slightest calming effect, as much as meditating, which is out of question right now since he can’t focus on a single task without feeling too tight within his own skin after mere minutes. Plus, Lambert’s fussy presence isn’t helping. If anything, his constant pacing is exasperating Geralt’s apprehension.

“Care to make yourself useful?” He asks, reaching out to pass him the axe. Lambert glances at it with a slight wince, but Geralt’s offer - and he was expecting no less - gets rebuffed.  _ Of fucking course. _

“Fuck you. I’ve already helped Vesemir with that fucking roof. Leave me be,” he snarls, baring his teeth out of sheer frustration. Geralt raises his hands in surrender. Suddenly, he can’t find any more motivation for chopping up so much firewood - the keep’s stores are already pretty full this year - and he just drops the axe, sighing again and collapsing on the tree stump instead, pinching the bridge of his nose to prevent a migraine from settling in.

“I’m worried too, you know?” He mutters through gritted teeth, trying to shield himself from whatever  _ noise  _ Lambert’s antsiness is producing right now. He hears a snort before Lambert plops down ungracefully next to him, taking up so much space that Geralt considers the idea of leaving the tree stump to him and sitting cross-legged on the cold, hard cobblestones of the courtyard instead. On what’s left of the cobblestones.

Lambert’s voice is filled with an almost childish panic when he whispers “He has never been this late, Geralt” and Geralt would really, really like to tell him that he’s wrong, that Eskel has been late more than once, that his memory is surely playing some sick tricks on him, but.

_ But. _

The truth is that Eskel has never been  _ this  _ late. Nor has he ever been late in general, because he’s the most judicious of them, he’d never dare to play the odds by trying to get on the Trail three, four weeks after Saovine just because. That’s something that only Lambert would do, and sometimes even Lambert is wise enough to scribble down a vague line and have it sent to Kaer Morhen, informing them that he would be wintering somewhere else. Still, no words from Eskel yet. Considering his habit of taking contracts far more south than the Jaruga border, Geralt is ready to give him the benefit of the doubt, but it’s his uncharacteristic silence that’s putting him on edge.

“I know,” it’s the only reply he manages, straight, dry, cutting words that definitely do not improve his or Lambert’s mood. Alas, he’s been informed he’s shitty at cheering people up anyway. “Let’s get inside. It’s getting cold. I’m sure Vesemir has already got the fire going,” he adds, when the weight of Lambert’s head presses gently against his shoulder as he leans on him for some sort of physical comfort. Which is worrying, per se, because Lambert isn’t one for coddling and sweet nothings whispered into his ear, not even when he’s at his worst.

Though reluctantly - he makes it very clear that he’s not all right with Geralt’s resolution by grunting low and menacing and huffing like a pissed-off bear - Lambert follows him inside, and Geralt can almost  _ feel  _ his thoughts racing, fueled by the frantic, anxious beating of his heart.

Before closing the heavy door behind him, though, Geralt tries to give a timid sniff to the chilly air, hoping to pick up Eskel’s scent somehow, but nothing. Aside from the usual, slightly decaying smell of the keep and the musky scent of the animals prowling around the woods, he can’t isolate any other scent that could lead back to Eskel. No horse. No leather and embers.

_ Nothing. _

Kaer Morhen remains nearly silent for the rest of the day despite Vesemir’s attempts at starting a conversation. The atmosphere, at dinner, remains as somber, and poor papa Vesemir is the first to call it a night and go to bed, no doubt to give his pups enough privacy to vent out their frustration in peace. Still, Geralt can’t help but lean into his touch when Vesemir gives a gentle stroke to his hair, softly whispering “I’m sure he is just fine” as he runs his calloused fingers through the tangled mass on his head. Lambert snarls when Vesemir approaches him, hissing an accusatory “How can you be so sure?” before storming to the pantry to drown his sorrows in a bottle - or possibly two - of white gull.

Geralt tries to read something from an old alchemy book he has picked up without much enthusiasm from the library they’ve arranged haphazardly on the ground floor, taking up much of the space of the great hall. Since he  _ loathes  _ sleeping alone in his and Eskel’s shared bed, he has taken up one of the empty cots next to the fire, his things scattered around as if he has just arrived instead of having been walled inside Kaer Morhen for the past two weeks. The reek of alcohol coming from the pantry is nearly unbearable. Lambert must have spilled something, or shattered a bottle while giving into his foul mood the only way he deems acceptable, by wreaking havoc on some things and keeping a scream tightly locked inside.

With a slight wince, he climbs the steep stairs leading to the first floor, the smell of spilled booze still burning in the back of his throat. Trying not to mind his discomfort too much, he takes a deep breath before cracking the door open with unsteady hands and gulping down the lump that forms in his throat as soon as his gaze meets the pristine emptiness of the bed, the clean sheets still unused, uncrumpled, looking as cold and hard as a shard of ice.

His room, without Eskel, is just as empty as any shitty bedroom he has slept in while on the Path, nothing more. No one has bothered starting a fire, since Geralt had made it so painfully clear he wouldn’t have needed his own bed until Eskel had been back, so he fetches some scant sticks from a dusty stash and casts a weak igni before stuffing the fireplace with dry firewood.

He doesn’t sleep, of course. A couple of hours of meditation, however, should be enough to sustain him until sundown.

He’s still meditating when the faint noise of the ancient external door being opened by skilled and familiar hands gets caught on the edge of his hearing. Suddenly, he’s back to the real world, his focus sharp, each and every sense on alert, the muscles in his back rigid and ready to leap.

_ Eskel. _

His footfall is unmistakable, though a little heavier than the usual. His scent, faint and distant, leather and embers and herbs, family, warmth, fresh grass-

Something’s off, Geralt can already say that. There’s this feeble whiff of sad and so utterly  _ broken  _ lingering between the fresh notes of grass and the heat of the embers on a dying campfire, but for now Geralt doesn’t want to focus on that, fuck, the Path must have been rough on him this year, he can give him that before overwhelming him with his affection, patching up whatever needs to be patched while telling him how reckless and idiotic he has been, how he made everyone so worried.

Surely, everything is going to end more than well, with good booze and a laugh, Eskel’s soft, lopsided smile lighting up the whole hall as he says he’s sorry and tells them about his adventures and, honestly, Geralt feels like he can breathe again after weeks spent with his face underwater.

He springs to his feet even before getting out of the dull, muffled mental space of meditation, and he stumbles against the many things scattered around, trying his best not to crash into the courtyard looking like an absolute madman, yet his energy, his absolute  _ happiness  _ can be barely contained.

Eskel is alive.

Eskel is  _ home. _

He’s safe, though maybe not sound, but there’s plenty of time to tend to his wounds, if needed. For now, he can be content with hugging him tight, breathing in as much of his scent as he can, thankful that they’ve all made it home once again.

Geralt barely bothers with throwing on his boots before stumbling out of his room and down the stairs. He meets him right as Eskel closes the main door behind him and shakes the first snowflakes of the year out of his coat. Geralt can hear the footsteps of Vesemir and Lambert coming down the stairs, too, but he only has eyes for Eskel. 

He looks... _ drawn _ for lack of a better word, his entire body tense as if the year on the Path had been nothing but a single fight. The smell of something wrong has grown stronger, too, the metallic whiff of old pain and iron clinging to him. It shakes loose some unpleasant memories in Geralt’s mind that make his stomach tingle and his wrists itch with remembered pain. Eskel is limping ever so slightly, too, but it doesn’t seem like he dragged himself here injured and on his last legs. Perhaps something that happened earlier in the year, then. It doesn’t matter - all that matters is that he finally made it home. They will have all winter to sort out what went wrong. 

“Eskel.”

“Wolf.” 

Eskel brings out the familiar word before Geralt almost barrels into him. Geralt thinks he can see the slightest shadow in Eskel’s eyes when he says the familiar nickname, but he might as well have imagined it, for now Eskel’s arms are around him, his weight as reassuringly warm and solid as ever as he is pulled up against Geralt’s body. 

“Missed you,” Geralt whispers into the space between them as he takes Eskel’s face into his hands and presses their foreheads together. He tries to avoid touching his scars, knowing how they tend to hurt from the cold. Eskel closes his eyes and leans into the touch, letting out a deep breath that seems to release at least some of the tension he has been holding in his body. Geralt wants to kiss him right then and there, but he thinks if he starts he is never going to stop, and Lambert and Vesemir will want their turn to welcome him home. 

Lambert casts one critical look over Eskel, cataloguing his stiffened gait, and the sliver of new scars revealed between his gloves and sleeves with an eagle’s eye. He thumps Eskel on the back when he hugs him, making him smile into the embrace. 

“Took you long enough,” he admonishes him. “You get stuck in a moat somewhere?” 

“Sorry.” It’s all that Eskel says for now, the slight lisp that the cold and stiffness of his scars brings with it every winter apparent in the word. “Long year.”

“Welcome home, pup.” Vesemir’s hug is just as strong as Lambert’s and he squeezes tightly until Geralt can hear Eskel groan a little when it evidently aggravates another one of his wounds.

It’s also Vesemir who takes Eskel’s cloak and gloves, spreading them in front of the fire to dry. Meanwhile, Lambert has grabbed his packs and begun carrying them towards the stairs, granting Geralt and Eskel just a few short moments of almost-privacy. 

Geralt smiles and wraps his arms around him again, this time around his lower back so he can draw Eskel close and kiss him. Proper, long kisses will have to wait until later when the fire has chased the cold from Eskel’s bones, but Geralt longs to feel his lips on his and so he cannot help but try and steal this one moment. Eskel leans forward to meet him willingly, almost melting into his touch. 

When he stiffens against Geralt’s body, Geralt thinks that he must have aggravated one of his wounds at first. Then, however, Eskel suddenly pushes him away and at the same time that he does, his smell changes. His oh-so-familiar scent is tainted all of a sudden, tinged with a note that reminds Geralt of dimeritium and something formless and dark that crawls around in the depths of the earth, corrupting everything it touches. 

“Eskel?”

It’s only the reflexes beaten into them during their childhood and honed by decades of fighting that save Geralt from being flung across the room. He senses the magic a split second before Eskel forms Aard with his fingers, jumping aside at the last moment. Even then, the shockwave catches him in the arm, spinning him around strongly enough to drop him to the floor. The sound of Eskel drawing steel grates just at the edge of his hearing. 

“What the fuck?!” That’s Lambert’s voice. 

“Eskel?” Vesemir sounds just as incredulous, and even less likely to believe what has just happened. 

There is no reply from Eskel, and when Geralt draws himself up on his feet again he can see that his face is entirely impassive, his remaining eye hard and cold. Eskel’s entire body seems poised and on edge with a singular focus, like Geralt has only seen in him on the Path. 

On the Path, when he is hunting  _ monsters _ . 

As if on cue, Eskel begins to advance towards him with the grace of a predator, only slightly hampered by the stiffness in his injured leg. Geralt scrambles backwards, attempting to raise himself back up on his legs again whilst his brain is still trying to comprehend what is happening. 

“This isn’t funny, Eskel. Knock it off!” There is a definite undercurrent of panic in Lambert’s voice now. Geralt turns his head to see that Lambert has grabbed the weapon closest to him - a dagger from Eskel’s pack. 

This one moment of inattention almost costs him his life as Eskel jumps forward witcher-fast, with a snarl on his lips that transforms his face into something terrifying.  _ Something not human _ , Geralt thinks, and hates himself for the thought. If this is what people see when they look at them, it is no wonder that they call them monsters. 

Geralt tries and rolls out of the way of Eskel’s slash - a move aimed to kill, not to injure, not to incapacite, but to  _ kill _ \- but he already knows he will be too slow. That is - until Eskel’s strike is blocked by another blade. 

“Wolf. Enough.” Vesemir’s voice is quiet, but it is the dangerous kind of quietness, the one that Geralt has only heard a handful of times in his life and that never fails to make him shudder. There is a reason that Vesemir survived this long, and it isn’t just that he was lucky during the Sacking or has spent more time at Kaer Morhen than all of them combined. 

A growl rips out of Eskel’s throat as one of his hands whips forward again. The Aard catches Vesemir right in the chest and sends him flying across the hall with a force that Geralt has never seen Eskel use before. With another flash of terror he realises that Eskel has always held back with his Signs in their training matches.  _ Always.  _

Vesemir hits a bench and the wall behind it with a bone-breaking crunch that Geralt can hear all the way across the room. His body collapses on the floor, limp and unmoving. He doesn’t get up.

Geralt hears Lambert curse, yelling “Vesemir!” with a high-pitched tone that sends sparks of searing pain through his skull. Eskel is looking at them, that much is true, but from the mean glint in his usually gentle eyes  _ \- eye,  _ he must remind himself - Geralt can say he isn’t  _ seeing  _ them. Threats, that’s what he sees. Threats.  _ Monsters.  _ And what is a monster hunter to do if not wipe monsters from existence? That thought terrifies Geralt beyond any imagination. Like all of them, Eskel is - though he has never dared to think about himself or his brothers in such a derogatory manner - a  _ killing machine,  _ his instincts, thoughts, muscular memory and razor-sharp focus all trained just for one purpose: the physical eradication of the evil plaguing the world.

“Eskel, what the fuck-” He manages, finding his fighting stance almost reflexively, despite his absolute unwillingness to engage in a fight. His brain  _ refuses  _ to process the thought of  _ fighting against Eskel,  _ his first love, his light in a life of darkness, his friend, his  _ brother. _

But can this stranger be Eskel at all? Can this tainted scent be Eskel’s scent? What the actual fuck has happened? Predictably enough, he doesn’t get any answers to his questions, because this unrecognizable version of Eskel takes a threatening step towards him, his fangs bared in a sneer, unnaturally long and pointed, sharp canines artificially shaped to rip raw flesh apart and be useful both for survival and fighting purposes. For some reason, Eskel’s have always been sharper and longer than theirs, as if the mutagens the mages had pumped into his veins during the Grasses had turned his mouth into to that of a wild predator.

“Hey, asshole, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Lambert steps in with his usual, almost suicidal bravado, wielding one of the antique swords from the walls and swinging it into the slightly stale air, the blade resonating as he, too, bares his teeth at Eskel, openly defying him. Geralt scrunches his nose, another whiff of dimeritium hitting his nostrils when Eskel turns his attention on Lambert, his good eye keeping track of each and every move of his blade. For the lack of any better idea, Geralt snatches a sword from a rack too; it’s a tad too heavy and it’s edges look slightly dulled from years of inadequate caring, but he has made do with worse and more improper weapons in desperate times. 

“Be fucking careful, Lambert,” he says, stressing every word. He casts a glance over Lambert’s shoulder; Vesemir is still out cold, but at least he has been propped up against the wall, safely out of Eskel’s reach  _ for now. _

Lambert and Eskel dance in a circle for a while, sizing each other up, the tension between them growing by the second, swords at the ready. Eskel’s fighting stance is slightly crouched, explosive, to maximise his speed and disruptive attack force, while Lambert remains more guarded, his blade angled and his elbows bent, his body arranged in a position that’s more fitted for parrying than to attack his opponent directly. He doesn’t want to hurt Eskel. None of them wants to. Geralt knows that it isn’t exactly the right time for speculation, but he can’t help wondering what may have possessed Eskel, why has he turned against them like this. The smell of dimeritium coming from him could be the key. Sadly, Eskel lounges at Lambert right before Geralt can grasp the connection between dimeritium and Eskel’s feral behavior, and he has to pirouette away when a vicious blow aimed at Lambert’s neck misses its target and Geralt almost finds a blade buried into the tender meat of his shoulder instead.

_ Fuck. _

Eskel growls, low and menacing, blow after blow landing against the ancient steel of Lambert’s blade as he tries to talk some sense back into Eskel, who seems completely disconnected from reality, his good eye hollow and devoid of its usual warmth. It glows yellow and gold, monstrous in its sheer  _ otherness,  _ the pupil drawn to a slit darting feverishly across the room, making Geralt shudder in fear when it focuses on him, so unrecognizing and  _ soulless. _

Geralt remembers having seen the very same stare, once, while fighting against an exceptionally skilled Kovirian soldier that was being mind controlled by a mage who had no desire to pay Geralt a fair and owed sum for a job. 

Suddenly it hits him, as clear as day, and his heart skips a painful beat at the flashing realization.

“Shit, Lambert, he’s being mind-controlled,” he hears himself say, but he’s not sure, the raspy, panicked voice coming from his throat is his. It can’t belong to him, can it?

“Mind what?” Lambert replies while rolling away from a reverse blow aimed to his side. “The fuck should we do now?”

In all honesty, Geralt has no fucking clue. Mind control isn’t something that he can consider himself an expert in. The smart guy in their lot has always been Eskel, and it’s with a pang that he thinks  _ he should know what to do, Eskel surely knows a thing or two on the subject.  _ He straightens his posture when he feels his knees buckle slightly under the weight of all the shit that’s happening right now. He can’t let this turmoil of emotions get the upper hand on him, not when there’s so much at stake. If Eskel is  _ really  _ under the influence of a mind-controlling spell, then it means that they’re all in mortal danger, not only now that Eskel has been turned into a weapon against them, but especially on the long run: should Eskel fail his task, whoever is controlling him will rally up the masses or gather an army of some sorts with which-

No. Even the thought alone is unbearable. Geralt grits his teeth and tightens his grip on the hilt of the sword.

“We should incapacitate him,” he states, a flash of stubborn determination on his features. He’s fast at leaping towards Eskel, faster than any of them given his additional mutations, his steel meeting the metallic resistance of Eskel’s blade as he, unfazed, jumps backwards, knocking out a heavy studded chair in the process. 

Eskel disengages and brings his sword around, catching Geralt’s second strike against him. He sidesteps, bringing himself within grappling distance - but instead of using the force of Geralt’s strike against him and twisting, he forms another Aard. Geralt’s Quen buckles underneath the horrifying strength of Eskel Sign and he is fairly sure he can hear at least two of his ribs break when the remaining force catches him square in the chest and makes him stumble backwards. His heart is hammering in his ears when Eskel advances on him. Geralt knows that this is a battle he can’t win, not if he is fighting to incapacitate and pulling his punches when Eskel is so obviously fighting with just one goal in mind: to kill. 

Lambert barrels into Eskel when is only a few feet away from Geralt, the air around him shining with Quen. Eskel snarls as he turns to meet his brother’s blade. They exchange a quick series of strikes and Geralt realises with another spike of horror that Eskel concentrates on attacking Lambert’s left, forcing him to overextend his bad shoulder, knowing how much more limited his range of motion is there. Lambert shouts something in anger when can’t quite block one of Eskel’s slashes fast enough and Eskel’s sword leaves a deep and bloody groove in his leg. 

Geralt quietly asks Eskel for forgiveness before he extends his fingers and forms Igni. The flames catch Eskel in his back, singe his hair, and he roars in anger. With another kick against Lambert’s already wounded leg he whirls around, moves away from them both and rolls across the floor to extinguish the flames on his back. The stench of burnt hair and fabric fills the air. 

“How in the fuck are we supposed to  _ incapacitate _ him?” Lambert’s voice is far higher than normal, suffused with panic. “If we don’t fight all out, he’s going to  _ kill _ us.”

“And risk killing  _ him _ ?”Geralt knows his own voice is just as panicked. “We can’t-”

The rest of his sentence is lost in a roar as a wall of flame rolls towards them. 

“Fuck!” Lambert yells. They manage to throw up their Quen just in time to keep themselves from being cooked alive, but some of the clothing and furs strewn around the room catch fire. Eskel comes right behind the effects of his Sign, attacking Lambert with all his might. Like a true Wolf, isolating and trying to bring down the wounded and thus weaker one of them as quickly as possible. 

“Lambert!” Geralt isn’t fast enough.

He isn’t fast enough to stifle the ferocity of Eskel’s attack on a still dazed Lambert who is wobbling dangerously on his injured leg. Isn’t fast enough to prevent Lambert’s bad shoulder from hitting the mantle of the fireplace with a horrifying noise as the bone gets wrenched out of its socket again. Lambert screams in shock and pain as he falls, blinding thrusting forward with his blade. It catches Eskel in the arm. Eskel seems barely slowed by the wound, all deadly determination.

Geralt isn’t fast enough to prevent him from wrenching the sword out of Lambert’s slackening grip and throwing it aside, from his boot stepping on the wound in Lambert’s leg. Lambert’s hands scrabble on the floor for anything that might help him defend himself. Another Quen sizzles in the air and then falls apart when he can barely bring up the energy for the Sign. They have never been his strongest suit and his brothers have always known it. Eskel’s boot comes down hard on Lambert’s knee. The resulting crunch of bone is as loud as an avalanche in Geralt’s ears. Lambert barely has the breath left to scream as he looks up at Eskel, eyes wide with panic. 

“Eskel…” His voice is no more than a mewl of pain. 

Eskel hesitates for just a second at the sound, frowning. Then he raises his sword for the killing blow. 

Geralt screams. 

He puts all of his energy into the Aard he sends their way and it is strong enough to make Eskel stumble and focus all his attention on Geralt instead of killing his brother.  _ He hesitated _ , Geralt reminds himself.  _ Eskel is somewhere inside there still _ .  _ Lambert got through to him, if just for a moment. Maybe I can- _

He doesn’t get much further before he has to use all his focus on defending himself from Eskel’s attacks instead. The collide in a flurry of strokes and parries before jumping apart again and this time, Geralt makes use of the one advantage he has, making sure to attack Eskel from the right where a part of his field of vision is missing, coming at him from angles he knows Eskel is bad at defending himself from, aiming for his already wounded arm. 

It works, at least up to a point - Eskel gets pushed into the defensive and for a moment, Geralt thinks he can win this fight, can knock Eskel out somehow so that they can figure out how to undo whatever it is that has taken control of his mind. Then Eskel disengages, leaps backwards, and casts Yrden. 

Geralt knows that his own Yrden usually just serves to force incorporeal beings to take corporeal form, slows down his opponents’ moves enough to allow him to get the upper hand in a fight. Eskel’s Yrden is different. It incapacitates him almost completely, as if every single one of Geralt’s limbs had been tied down with lead. Even breathing takes an almost conscious effort.

No, not almost. It  _ does _ keep him from breathing effectively, making him gulp down mouthfuls of air that don’t quite fill his lungs, one painful gasp following the other as he’s stuck there, unable to move. Eskel closes the short distance between them with a growl, picking up Geralt’s sword and tossing it away. The metallic, grating sound it makes as it hits against the cold surface of the floor explodes into Geralt’s brain like the deflagration of a bomb. Some tiles chip, sending shards everywhere.

“Eskel,” he manages, but hardly. His mouth feels as constricted as his chest, every breath an abuse he perpetrates against his ribs, against his rigid diaphragm that lurches with each sharp, strained intake of air. He should be very much used to feeling pain - hell, not only he has undergone the regular Trials and survived them, but he has even managed to walk out some additional, sadistic and highly experimental second Trials and nothing will ever compare to the bone-breaking pain he felt for  _ months  _ after that - yet this kind of agony feels totally different. It’s not only the obvious ache in his constricted chest, the sharp pain of his ribs flexing unnaturally under the invisible force of magic, but also the sorrow that comes with knowing that Eskel - his Eskel, the gentle Wolf of Kaer Morhen - wants to  _ kill him. _

Obliterate monsters from existence, isn’t that what a witcher is supposed to do?

He grits his teeth to keep the discomfort in his battered bones at bay. Eskel is close now, his smell completely wrong and so very bitter. He glares down at him with a foul glint in his good eye, tilting his head sideways as if to disclose some very important truth written on his skin in some kind of glyphs he can’t quite decipher. It takes Geralt an immeasurable amount of strength to utter “It’s me, Eskel. It’s Geralt” in an almost inaudible voice.

Time stills while Eskel frowns meditatively, his breath hitching just slightly when his nostrils flare and he smells Geralt again, tasting him on his tongue like a viper out for a hunt. Geralt hopes that would be enough to instill some  _ recognition  _ into him, to light the spark that will slowly make Eskel walk out of this deadly trance, and with a forceful pull he commands his lips to curl up in the pained parody of a smile.

It seems to be working for a while. The fog clouding Eskel’s mind seems to thin out, though just so, and the harsh hold of Yrden on his limbs loosens enough that he can, at least, move his fingers again, trying to reactivate the circulation in his numb fingertips. The constant humming of his medallion hurts against his sore chest.

“Let...let me go...Eskel,” he says - admitting that he’s  _ pleading  _ would be too much of a hard blow on his pride -, his body arching in a vain attempt at lifting his arms and reaching for his face.

Suddenly, all the breath he was holding on to gets knocked out of his bruised lungs again. He realizes he’s been hit by a very controlled blast of Aard only when he hears the dry crunch of his sternum giving up against the sheer force of Eskel’s Chaos, his heart kicking and pounding, the Sign disrupting its rhythm.

Eskel’s satisfied grin afterwards is the most terrifying thing Geralt has ever had the displeasure of witnessing.

“Eskel...please-”

Another blast of Aard aimed directly at his heart. This time, the organ lays still and motionless for a great deal of time before resuming its forced, frantic galloping, the strained beat weak and too quick for Geralt’s liking. Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see Vesemir’s slightly sagged form, his brow furrowed in pain. He’s still unconscious, but it won’t be long before he wakes up and, honestly, Geralt can only hope his heart won’t give out before Vesemir can come to the rescue or, at least, try.

“Eskel, don’t-”

Yet again, his plea falls into deaf ears, followed by the third blast of Aaard, and the fourth, until Geralt can’t take it anymore, until there isn’t a single whiff of air left inside of him, until there’s nothing but his darkening vision, the painful staccato of his heart, the space between each heartbeat long enough to send his adrenaline-filled brain into a hysteric kind of confusion.  _ He is dying.  _ As much as he refuses to accept that he’s going like this, he is dying, and there’s nothing he can do to prevent it from happening. Not when his sword has been sent flying several yards away and his muscles refuse to cooperate, Yrden still strong enough to keep him in place, frozen still.

There’s salt on his lips, salt on his sweaty, cold face, and the dizziness is nearly overwhelming. He would surely fall face-first on the floor if Yrden wasn’t glueing him to the ground, fighting against the muscles in his back that threaten to go limp any minute now. The darkness swallows his peripheral vision, the light in his eyes slowly going out, going out, he’s leaden and he’s floating altogether, the pointless quivering of his perfected, artificially engineered heart already unable to sustain him; Aard hits, Aard hits, it hurts so much that Geralt ends up  _ wishing _ he would pass out, though he’s very much aware he would fall into a slumber from which there would be no waking up in the morn’.

The pain, however, is so sharp and violent and real that death would only be the merciful outcome at this point.

_ Unless. _

Eskel’s hand is on his chest now, his fingers flexed to form the Sign, the empty, unrecognizing eye staring directly into his half-lidded eyes. Magic tingles against his skin and his medallion vibrates so hard Geralt is sure it’s going to crack soon. However, there’s still a silver of strength in him, just a tiny little bright dot tucked away somewhere in the deepest recesses of his soul, just enough to allow him one last, desperate attempt at snatching Eskel out of the telepathic force that has armed his hand against his very brothers, against his mentor, against his  _ family. _

“Es...kel…”

It’s a faint whisper, so desperate and broken it sends Geralt back in time, back when he was a feeble pup fighting off the biting cold of the Blue Mountains seeping through the many cracks in the walls, curling against an equally young and terrified Eskel to enjoy what little warmth emanated from his body.

Even back then, he was the warmest of them all, and the most lively, his dimpled smile rarely falling off his round, chubby face.

He blacks out, at some point. He blacks out, but when his heart gives a powerful lurch that makes his cracked sternum shudder, Geralt draws in a gasping breath and he almost starts screaming out of pure, unbridled joy when he finds no resistance whatsoever keeping his lungs from filling to their maximum capacity, oxygen flowing back to his starved and shocked brain, the adrenaline rushing through his veins keeping him from shattering into a million pieces.

Steady, warm hands guide him into a controlled fall. He finds himself lying in a semi-sitting position, his heaving chest puffing up and deflating rapidly. He’s breathing, at least. And, though terribly irregularly, his heart is still beating, although every beat feels like agony against his shattered breastbone. 

“Here, Wolf, here.”

Someone  _ \- Eskel -  _ puts a vial to his lips, helping him gobble down its sour content in a single sitting. Drowner brain and celandine, mitigated by just the right amount of dwarven spirit. The alcohol stings in his mouth, leaving a hot trail all the way down to his stomach. He coughs and a rivulet of Swallow comes off from his nose, and for a split second panic grips at his throat again as he finds himself unable to breathe. But the steady hands are still there, rubbing gentle circles between his shoulder blades, a litany of praising words accompanying the strokes.

_ Eskel. _

Eskel,  _ his Eske _ l, he is back. Geralt tries to speak, yet only a husky, croaking sound slips past his sore throat.

“Gods, Wolf, I’m so sorry-”

Even Eskel’s breathing is fractured and labored. Geralt would like to soothe him, to tell him that it’s all right, nothing happened, no one would dare to hold him accountable for what he has done under the influence of powerful, dark magic, but something goes awfully wrong and he only manages to mutter “Don’t-” through gritted teeth, his eyes darting from Vesemir’s barely stirring form to Lambert.

It must be that, or something else entirely - Geralt is no seer, he couldn’t say - that propels Eskel back on his feet with a wince, a broken moan on his lips, making him realize the  _ monstrosity  _ of what has just happened to its full extent. Geralt watches him as he intently takes in the sight of the great hall, all in disarray, some chairs ready to be turned into firewood and splinters of ancient, rotting wood scattered all around the bloody, dusty floor. He’s bleeding steadily from his arm, but when Geralt tries to reach out for him he just flinches away as if, by touch alone, he could be turned again into the ruthless killing machine that has wreaked havoc over Kaer Morhen.

“Eskel-”

Despite the evident limp in his leg, Eskel is inhumanly fast while rushing for the door, horror plastered on his heartbroken, grief-stricken face, guilt making his shoulders sag and his breath come out in short, shallow gasps.

When Geralt tries to stand up to run after him, he finds himself unable to, his muscles trembling so hard he’s firmly convinced he’s doomed to live the rest of his miserable life like this, with a permanent tremor in his lower limbs and his arms too weak to lift a spoon. 

He falls back to the ground, a low noise of pain and grief coming from his throat. There are soft sounds coming from the wall and when he turns his head, he sees Vesemir slowly coming to again. Lambert is twitching, too, trying to turn his battered and broken body so that he can crawl towards him, to no avail. 

Geralt coughs and wills the Swallow in his body to work faster. He needs be up, to see to Vesemir, to Lambert, to Eskel- 

A groan rings through the room and when Geralt looks up again he sees Vesemir rising to his feet, swaying dangerously. 

“Shit,” the old Wolf mutters. His eyes are unfocused and he seems to be unable to stand without help, probably feeling the aftereffects of a mighty concussion if Geralt is any judge. At least it doesn’t seem like his back or legs are broken.

“Wait.” Geralt grits his teeth and tries to sit up and move again, this time with more success. Eskel’s potions are spread across the floor next to him and he easily picks out the three vials of Swallow that are still left. Every single movement hurts and his breaths are rattling in his chest, around the shape of bones that feel plain wrong under his skin.  _ Just like they did after the Trials _ , his mind supplies unhelpfully. He is still far too weak to walk, but he somehow drags himself over to Vesemir and presses a bottle into his hand. Vesemir squeezes his fingers to express what he doesn’t have words for right now. Then Geralt moves over to Lambert. 

“Lambert,” he presses out. Lambert’s eyes are closed now that he knows both Vesemir and Geralt are alive and moving, and his breathing is flat and uneven, tremors running through his body. He jerks at the sound of Geralt’s voice and his eyes fly open.

“Don’t move, don’t. I have Swallow-” Somehow Geralt manages to lift Lambert’s head and feed him the potion, making sure that he doesn’t choke. 

“Eskel.” It’s the first thing Lambert says when he is focused enough to speak again. He tries to lift his arm and gives up with a pained moan when the movement proves too much. “Is he- You didn’t-”

“I didn’t kill him. He’s alive.” Geralt can’t bring it over himself to say that he’s fine, because wherever Eskel is right now, he certainly isn’t  _ fine _ . “Hold still.”

“Wasn’t planning on running anywhere,” Lambert says with a grimace that is a weak approximation of a smile. His leg looks horrible, knee deformed and already swelling. At least the blood has stopped flowing from the wound, but there is far too much of it on the ground for Geralt’s liking. Geralt wants nothing more than to help him, to take care of his wounds, but the short trek across the floor has robbed him of almost all of his strength. He leans back against the mantle of the fireplace, leg stretched out so that Lambert can move a little and lean his head against it. His hand grabs Lambert’s healthy shoulder and squeezes. He looks up to see that Vesemir has drunk the Swallow as well. If he concentrates, he can sense the effort that it takes the old Wolf to consciously slow his breathing and focus on the healing with the potion’s help, enough that he can move and help him with Lambert.

“Give me a second,” Geralt pants. “Then we’ll look after you.”

“Ha,” Lambert snorts. “I’ll live. I think.” In contrast to the light tone of his words his breathing speeds up again and he gasps when an involuntary movement jostles his shoulder. “Hurts like fuck, though. You okay, pretty boy?” 

“I’ll live.” Geralt gives him a weak smile when Lambert bumps his fist lightly into his leg in retribution. “Eskel really did a number on us, hu.”

“Fucking terrifying, yeah.” Lambert groans. 

“Yeah. Fuck.” 

“Fuck.”

***

It has been three days since the brief but devastating fight in the main hall, and they haven’t seen Eskel once. They know he’s alive - the stalls are being mucked daily, and the horses looked after, and at least a little food has gone missing from the pantry. But of the witcher himself there’s almost no trace; Eskel seems to be an expert at avoiding them, although Geralt has to admit that in their current injured states, he and the other Wolves aren’t really that hard to avoid. 

As suspected, Lambert has been hit the worst of them all. They’ve managed to put his shoulder back into its socket and stabilise the cracked - thankfully not completely broken - bones as best as they can, but it still hurts, that much is evident. His leg will likely take weeks to heal and months until it’s fully functional again. Vesemir was lucky - a broken arm, some cracked ribs and a severe concussion, but nothing worse like Geralt feared originally. And he himself - his chest is blue and black, a mass of bruises covering the broken and cracked bones below, but they’re healing well, courtesy of large amounts of potions and his enhanced metabolism, faster than even the other Witchers. 

And thus, it is him who decides to stay up and try to catch Eskel one night. Vesemir is still too sore to go out in the piercing cold that has settled into the valley, and Lambert...well, Lambert, too, isn’t exactly at his best with his arm still hanging almost uselessly from his abused shoulder. He gets out right after bidding goodnight to Lambert, who is dulling out his pain with a weird concoction of rose vodka and Swallow, and reaches for the stables first, hoping to catch at least a whiff of Eskel’s scent there. Needless to say, only his smell lingers, drowned by the far sourer smell of horse manure and dry hay, but Eskel doesn’t seem to have taken refuge there, though it’s more than clear that he’s looking after the stables with his usual zeal, filling the troughs and ensuring that the animals are well fed and clean. Geralt is even able to spot a basket full of apples in a corner, not exactly fresh but good enough for the horses. And for one famished witcher, judging by the fact that a couple of cores have been tossed in the dump, the mark of Eskel’s overdeveloped fangs still visible in the darkening flesh of the apples.

He can’t help but sigh as he leaves the stables - not without rewarding both Roach and Scorpion with a scratch on the snout first - and heads for his option number two. The old stables. He and Eskel used to hide there whenever they needed to keep a low profile after one of their pranks. There are another couple of places where he could look - the bastion and the tunnels running all the way under the forge towards the lab - but he’s positive that he’ll find Eskel there, curled up under a stash of rotting hay, sulking or drinking himself to sleep as he always does when he’s feeling guilty. 

It doesn’t take long for Geralt to track him down. The old stables are secluded, hidden away in a corner of the courtyard that’s so unkempt the grass has grown to brush against Geralt’s hips, but not so much that he can’t find a trail in the mess. It’s not quite visible - Eskel is very good at covering his tracks, after all - but it’s there. His smell, some crushed blades of grass, the faint whiff of old leftovers and vodka -- blood, too, from the wound in his arm that he has surely neglected. Geralt knows him well enough to be sure of that.

“Eskel?” He calls, entering the chilly, old stables from a door that has been swung open one too many times to be still steady on its hinges, but Eskel must have buried himself somewhere, not wanting to be seen or bothered, because no answer comes. Not that Geralt was expecting one anyway. He sighs heavily again, and his ribs pop painfully when he does. An almost inaudible pained whine comes from somewhere behind a pile of ancient sacks left to rot there and Geralt bites at his lower lip, trying not to run straight to Eskel and set him on edge even more with his eagerness. “Eskel, please. Come out. I don’t...I mean no harm. Really. You’re...safe.”

A long beat passes before a low, husky growl comes from Eskel’s hiding spot. Geralt hears the grating sound of nails being dug in the damp dirt, the smell of blood more detectable now. Eskel’s wound must have reopened somehow. Or it hasn’t healed properly yet, Geralt can’t say without seeing it firsthand.

“But you’re not. Go away, Wolf.”

Yeah, not quite the answer he was hoping to hear, but he must reckon that he couldn’t anticipate anything less from someone like Eskel. His pain, his guilt, his screaming conscience -- it’s all so blatant to see, smell and hear, though they haven’t had a proper conversation in what, ages? They didn’t talk much before Eskel had lost control, and they didn’t have the chance to meet on the Path during the season. So, yes, ages. Still, he’s more acquainted with Eskel than he is with himself, and he doesn’t need to have a proper and neat conversation with him to  _ assume  _ how shitty he’s feeling right now.

Which is why he won’t pressure him into leaving his lair. Not aggressively, at least. All in all, he can be a patient man if he wants to, and if Eskel is involved he’s more than willing to just sit on his ass and wait. Even if it means he’ll literally freeze his buttocks off by sitting in the abandoned stables all night long.

“Sorry, I can’t. Don’t want to.”

He’s not sure, but his ears might have picked up the ghost of a barely whispered “shit” in the air. 

“Wolf, I’m serious.”

“And so am I, Eskel. I mean you no harm. I’m not here to...do whatever you think I’m going to do. I just-”

“Wolf, please,” Eskel cuts him off, his voice thick with despair. His breath hitches, as if he was sobbing, but this is one of the many things Geralt can’t say for sure, Eskel isn’t that kind of guy that vents out his emotions like this. “Leave me alone. The things that I’ve done-”

Now it’s Geralt’s turn to interrupt him, and quite abruptly so. He knows where this whole conversation is going and, frankly, he doesn’t want Eskel to call the shots on this. He’s a victim, like all of them. He’s been tricked and played into submission, only the Gods know what else he must have endured before giving in and letting the fucking mage or sorceress to take over his mind and turn him into a weapon.

“You weren’t yourself, Eskel. Come back with me. Lambert and Vesemir are already in bed, if you don’t want to see them, you don’t have to. But, please, just come back. I can’t stand the thought of you out here, all alone, living off scraps and refusing to take care of your injuries.”

“I deserve-”

“No, you don’t. And now, please, let me help you, Eskel,” he says, rising to his feet and taking a small, tentative step towards Eskel’s hideout. Nothing moves. It’s a good sign. Slowly, he covers the small distance between them, the smell of rotting barley whipping at his nostrils so aggressively he’s forced to pinch his nose shut not to gag, and when his gaze finally meets Eskel’s broken, sad, glossy eye, relief washes over him in an instant, wiping away the conflicting thoughts that were timidly trying to raise to the surface of his oh so weary mind. 

Gulping down the lump in his throat, Geralt reaches for Eskel, but - as much as it hurts him - he gets rebuffed, though not malevolently. Eskel’s eyes get even more glossy, watery, when he gently pushes Geralt away shaking his head, struggling to get up on his own.

“No, Wolf. Don’t...don’t touch me. Could be...dangerous.”

Each word sounds strained to Geralt’s ears, as though he’s putting so much effort in the mere action of talking. His heart sinks into his chest when he gives a quick assessment of his general state. He’s a mess, dirty and bloody, the deep gash in his arm showing early stages of infection. He’s sporting a mild fever, too, but he’s too deeply hurt and guilty now to seek help for that. 

“We won’t know until we try,” Geralt points out. “And you need help. Let me see your arm.” 

Eskel draws back even further and shakes his head. It’s apparent how he tries to keep his leg stretched out, and Geralt remembers the limp he noticed right when he arrived. 

“Too dangerous,” he says again. 

“Well, you can’t really spend the rest of your life in the stables, afraid to touch any of us.” Gerlt tries to sound pragmatic and logical, but he cannot help the note of grief that is floating through his voice. He forces himself to adopt a lighter tone again. “Besides, I don’t think you’re in any shape to overpower me this easily, this time round.”

The corners of Eskel’s mouth twitch. Only once, and very briefly, but Geralt still counts it as a victory. 

“How are the others?” Eskel asks, twisting some rotten grain stalks between his fingers, not looking at Geralt as if he is afraid to hear the answer. 

“They’ll be fine. Shaken, but fine. Lambert will need some time to heal fully, but he’s currently using his injuries as an excuse to delegate pretty much every task given to him, so I’m sure he isn’t too mad.” 

“Ha.” Eskel snorts. A deep breath escapes him and he leans back against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment. His voice is quiet when he continues to speak. “Good. That’s good. I’m glad I didn’t-”

“...didn’t manage to kill us all?” Geralt finishes the sentence. Eskel winces. “You didn’t. You  _ stopped _ . You saved us, in the end.” 

“Almost too late.” Eskel still doesn’t look at him and sighs. 

“ _ Almost _ . If I had a Crown for every time I was  _ almost _ killed or  _ almost _ made a grave mistake, I could buy all of Touissant by now.” Geralt shrugs. He scoots just a little closer and reaches out towards Eskel’s arm again. “I promise I’ll knock you out immediately should anything change.” 

Eskel gives a weak laugh at that, pressing his face in his hand and rubbing his forehead. 

“And so, the fate of Kaer Morhen might yet depend on the strength of your right hook,” he remarks dryly. He doesn’t move away when Geralt covers the distance between them, tired and hurt as he is. 

Both of them hold their breaths when Geralt’s fingers make contact with Eskel’s skin - slowly at first, then with increasing pressure. Geralt is the first to start breathing again, letting out a deep sigh of relief when his hand encircles Eskel’s wrist, noting the redness and rough skin under his touch, the same tell-tale signs of recent wounds he noticed when Eskel arrived. Suddenly, he has a very good idea of what must have happened before the mage managed to install the mind control into him and his entire chest clenches painfully with pain and fury. They tortured him, tortured his brother, his  _ love _ , and Eskel hasn’t even been able to talk about it, receive comfort, begin to heal, because he has been forced to sleep in the old stables on his own when he should have been in the safe embrace of his family. The desire to go find and murder the mage right at this moment is almost overwhelming. 

Geralt tugs a little at Eskel’s wrist until Eskel leans forwards. Hesitantly, at first, but when he realises that Geralt’s touch isn’t changing anything, he almost melts against him. Geralt wraps his arms around him, mindful of his wound. Eskel stiffens but still, nothing happens, and he leans into him even more strongly, all the tension slowly bleeding out of him. He buries his face in Geralt’s shoulder and Geralt simply sits there and holds him, one hand rubbing his back, as Eskel begins to tremble imperceptibly when the enormity of what happened truly hits him. Geralt waits patiently until he stops shivering and Eskel moves to sit upright again, before he points at his sleeve. 

“Now let me look at that.” 

Under normal circumstances, the wound would barely be of note. But Eskel’s potions were all left in the main hall and he has clearly neither eaten nor slept enough, nor really bothered to clean or look after the wound, meaning that it looks angry and inflamed. Eskel hisses a little when Geralt presses down on the skin around it. At least he has thought ahead, brought food and one of the small kits filled with medical supplies that he always has on him when out on the Path. 

Eskel remains as stoic as possible under Geralt’s touch, the only sign of pain in his expression the way his nostrils flare and the hard lines that clenching his teeth always paints around his mouth. His hand is on Geralt’s knee, fingers digging into his skin, especially when Geralt cleans out the wound and begins to stitch it shut. 

“Do you want me to see to your leg, too?” Geralt asks when he’s done. Eskel shakes his head. 

“Later, perhaps,” he tells him. “I need to-” He goes quiet again, evidently lost in his thoughts. He is rubbing his wrists absent-mindedly where the shackles (dimeritium, if Geralt had to cast a wager) had no doubt been digging into his skin. 

“You should come back inside with me,” Geralt suggests gently. “Lambert and Vesemir would be glad to see you.” 

Eskel lets out a hesitant, small sigh, his fingers reaching for the nasty scar on his face and giving it a solid scratch. By the wince that comes afterwards, Geralt can say he hurt himself, though not on purpose.

“You said they were in their rooms, sleeping. Were you just trying to lure me out of here gently or…?”

Geralt snorts under his breath.  _ Stubborn asshole. _

“They  _ really  _ are sleeping already, Eskel. Come on, let me help you up, lean on me.”

Despite his evident concern, Eskel obliges, slipping his uninjured arm across Geralt’s shoulder and doing his best not to slump on him with all his weight, lening gently enough not to impair his movements as he drags him all the way back to the castle, gritting his teeth against the jolts of pain that make his muscles jump and twitch.

“Wolf.”

“Mh?”

“Thank you,” he whispers, low and husky, not even daring to look at Geralt in the eyes.

Geralt shakes his head in disbelief. Did Eskel really think he wouldn’t have come for him, eventually? That would make him twice as stubborn -- and twice a prick.

“Don’t mention it,” it’s Geralt’s laconic reply, as he bends his neck so that he can rub his temple against Eskel’s in a small but unmistakable gesture of utmost affection.

***

“Here, drink this.”

Geralt watches as Eskel gives a tentative sniff to whatever concoction he’s being served, his nose scrunched in a puzzled grimace.

“The fuck is  _ this _ , Wolf?”

Geralt, already crouched down at his side to give a proper look at his injured leg, hums under his breath, his fingers prodding the apparently firm and intact flesh searching for whatever damage must lie beneath. Eskel hisses quietly when Geralt’s fingertip brushes against a slightly swollen notch in his knee. 

“Cherry cordial, Swallow and whatever herb Lambert has infused into the mix. Apparently, it works wonders against infection.”

The damage must lie in his bones, then. Nothing that Geralt could fix, anyway. By the look of the bump, however, it looks like Eskel's leg has been twisted once or twice, no doubt with magic, before being mended enough to allow him to ride back to Kaer Morhen and kill his brothers in cold blood.

“You went through his notes.”

Not a question, but a statement. Geralt ends up snorting again.

“Of course I did. Hilarious findings, I dare say. I can quote a very heartfelt  _ do not mix white gull with thunderbolt, makes colors talk to you _ by heart and, honestly, I could even tell you where to find underlinings and capital letters.”

“I’m not sure I want to drink this thing, Wolf.”

Geralt gives him a faint, encouraging smile.

“Go on. This is one of the safe recipes. And you need it, you know?”

Eskel merely grunts before taking a tentative sip. Then another. And another one for good measure. The thing doesn’t taste good - at least it doesn’t smell like it - but Geralt is sure it’s going to help Eskel out with the infection and with the obvious additional mending his battered body needs. He should rest, too. Still, Geralt can’t help but wonder what the fuck has happened to him in the past weeks, if not months. The sheer urgency of wanting to snatch whatever pieces of information are hiding in Eskel’s mind is making him almost dizzy. Thinking about the mage that has dared to lay a finger on Eskel - his brother, the very love of his life - makes his heart go aflame with so many contrasting feelings that he can’t even name each one properly. Bloodlust, first. He longs to feel the satisfying crunch of the mages neck snapping under his hands. Hatred. Anger. Fury. He wants to tear flesh apart, mangle bones and feed whatever sorry remains are left over to the rabid dogs infesting the cities and the villages all around.

_ But. _

He has to keep calm, for now. Lay low. Who knows if the deranged piece of shit is already sending an army up the mountains or rallying the poor sods in some backwater village to do the dirty work while the mage is safely tucked away.

Biting back his spite -  _ his rage - _ leaves a nasty, sour taste in his mouth. Eskel is watching him intently, his head slightly tilted and his lids heavy with exhaustion.

“You up for telling me what happened, Eskel? I don’t mean to pry, but...I’m worried. We went through some tough shit together, so…”

They’ve taken up a couple of cots downstairs. Forcing Eskel to climb the stairs would have been criminal, in his state. Vesemir’s soft snores are coming from upstairs. No doubt the old man has forgotten to shut his door when he went to bed, as weary as he is with the constant ache in his knee and the aftermath of a bad concussion. Eskel buries himself in the old, tattered blanket that reeks of mold and dust, shuddering a little. The fire casts long shadows on his face, exaggerating the hollowness of his cheeks and giving his scars a rather angry look.

“There’s not much to say, Wolf, actually. I think I’ve been stripped clean of some of the memories, at least the most painful ones. The mage didn’t want me to remember how he had roughed me up, I guess, fearing retaliation.”

“Would only be fair.”

“I know. But I like to think that I’m better than him. Anyway, I remember some flashes, nothing more. My leg, for example. It was,” he sighs, as if looking for the right terms in which to describe the grievous injuries he has suffered, but apparently he’s at a loss. “It was ugly. Beaten to a pulp. Twisted. I could spot the shards of bone in the pulpy flesh whenever I dared to look down, but I can’t tell you how it happened, I don’t remember the details there. There was a mage. Two, possibly three or even four goons. A cell. Manacles. Chains. Just...the usual, I guess. A dungeon and some torture.”

“And what about the mind-controlling spell? Do you remember anything?”

Eskel shrugs slightly. Geralt’s fingers find his and he squeezes his hand gently, coaxing him into going on with his story even though it’s far from pleasant to hear. As selfish as it sounds, he  _ needs  _ to know. He needs information. He needs detail. He’s not sure he’ll ever fulfill his revenge purpose, but now that the wheels have been set into motion it would be extremely difficult to back away.

“Besides being fed dimeritium and a hallucinogenic drink, no, I don’t remember much. I...I saw you, though. When I was delirious with the toxins, I mean. I had a vision. You were...kissing me.”

Geralt nods, his lips pale, pursed in a tight line.

“Could have been the trigger. You started going rogue right after I kissed you.”

“I don’t know. Could be. But I remember seeing you, kissing you, I remember -- the light, perhaps? Then, I don’t know how, I woke up at the fucking foot of the Trail, with no recollection of how I ended up there and Scorpion at my side. I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything more,” he says, with an apologetic little smile tugging at the corner of his ruined lips.

Geralt wants to inquire more, to get to the bottom of the whole fucking nightmare, but the sluggish dragging of feet against the cold floor sets both him and Eskel on edge. Lambert, still sporting the backlash of his most recent bender, walks into the great hall, hissing from the cold, and gives Eskel a dirty look with his eyes half-lidded.

“Asshole.”

It burns. Though Lambert didn’t mean to go so harsh on him. 

“I’m sorry, Lambert. I’m truly sorry.”

Geralt’s eyes follow Lambert as he drags his bare feet across the floor, suppressing a shiver, and he plops down ungracefully next to Eskel with a soft snort.

“You better be. Warm me up, I’m freezing my balls off,” he commands, tugging at the heavy woolen blanket and waiting for Eskel to flap his cocoon open so he can rest against his uninjured side, yawning like a kid without even bothering to cover up his mouth. Eskel has gone so stiff Geralt thinks he’s going to break soon. Yet, Lambert relaxes visibly, muttering something unintelligible under his breath, before letting out a slurred “M’glad you’re back” while tucking his face in the crook of Eskel’s neck.

Something in Eskel’s posture seems to loosen slightly at Lambert’s words, and when he gently wraps his arm around him, Geralt can finally draw a relieved sigh. They end up sleeping in the great hall, tangled tight, not even minding each other’s injuries, each one warming up the other with their body heat. 

Geralt is the first to rouse the next morning, finding Lambert’s elbow pressed hard in his back and one of Eskel’s impossibly long legs sprawled across his hips. There’s the faint smell of porridge in the air.

_ Vesemir. _

If he focuses his hearing, Geralt can even pick up the soft sounds of humming, the same song their mentor used to sing to them so often as children. 

Eskel remains deeply asleep when Geralt carefully disentangles himself from his limbs, the last few nights of little sleep and healing potions having taken their toll. Lambert stirs and cracks one eye open, grumbling something under his breath when Geralt makes a quick motion and mouths ‘ _ Stay. Sleep _ .’ at him. He doesn’t have to be told twice, not when he is still in need of healing himself. Besides, he’s never been a morning person. 

Geralt shuffles into the kitchen where he does indeed find Vesemir at the stove, cooking and humming quietly to himself. He’s a bit slower than usual with just one completely functioning arm, but the pot on the stove is still bubbling away happily, filling the air with its aromatic scent. 

“Wolf.” Vesemir nods at him and hands Geralt the knife that he was just trying to use to chop up some nuts one-handedly with. Unsuccessfully, it appears. Geralt takes it and pops one of the nuts into his mouth, ignoring Vesemir’s quiet ‘ _ tsk _ ’. “The others awake yet?”

“No.” Geralt shakes his head, carefully chopping the nuts into smaller pieces before putting them in a little bowl. They’ll sprinkle them over their breakfast later. Except for Lambert, who hates nuts. “Still deeply asleep.”

“Good. They need it.” Vesemir nods and gives the porridge a stir. “How is he?” No need to specify who he means. 

“Tired.” Geralt heaves a sigh. “Ridden with guilt. Hurt, inside and outside.” He briefly wonders how much of what Eskel trusted him with he should tell Vesemir. “He didn’t...he didn’t break willingly or easily before they forced the spell on him. But it’s gone now, I think. He’ll heal.”  _ I hope _ . 

“Good.” Vesemir stirs the porridge again before looking up at Geralt. “And you?” 

Geralt avoids looking at him and picks up the little jar of honey next to the stove instead, turns it around in his hands. 

“Angry,” he finally says. “Worried, of course. Relieved, a little. But above all, absolutely  _ furious _ .” He sets down the jar and grabs the edge of the kitchen surface instead, pressing down so strongly that his knuckles stand out stark and white. 

“The mage?” Vesemir asks. 

“Yes.” Geralt presses the word out between his teeth. “I want nothing more than to throttle him with my bare hands.”

“Maybe hold off on that until the end of winter at least,” Vesemir says mildly, not actually discouraging him. Geralt is fairly sure that Vesemir would probably help him murder the man if he could. However, it’s not their decision to make and he knows it; Eskel should be the one having the final say on this, him and no one else. 

Vesemir moves closer and jostles Geralt’s shoulder with his. Geralt takes a deep breath and tries to tame the fury inside him, tries to sink back into the peaceful mood of an early morning, his brothers’ steady breaths coming from the main hall and their father next to him, the smell of breakfast in the air and the keep quiet around them. Vesemir begins humming again and that, at last, helps him to calm down. 

Lambert limps into the kitchen a while later, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. 

“Porridge? Nice.” He doesn’t waste a moment in stealing some of the dried fruit that Vesemir has been preparing from the bowl next to it. Vesemir sighs in fond exasperation. 

“Go, both of you. Wake up Eskel and wash yourselves, then set the table. I’ll finish up here.”

“Of course, Papa.” Lambert rolls his eyes and pats Geralt on the arm. “Come on, pretty boy. Let’s go.”

Geralt follows him outside to find Eskel sitting up on his cot and yawning, rubbing his eyes. Lambert sees the expression on his face and looks at him. 

“I’ll go ahead,” he sighs, with a meaningful glance at both of them. He disappears towards his room before Geralt can reply. 

“Hey.” Geralt sits down next to Eskel. He looks better after a full night of sleep and the potions and Lambert’s special mixture have definitely done their work, the wound on Eskel’s arm already looking better. 

“Hey.” Eskel bumps his shoulder into his. Geralt rests his cheek against him briefly, causing Eskel to expel a little sigh. 

“Kiss me?” Geralt asks him after a moment. “Just to see if it’s really gone. And...I miss you.” He only realises just how much when he says the words out loud, the longing to feel Eskel close, to feel him everywhere suddenly an almost physical ache inside his chest, layered neatly over his healing ribs and sternum. 

“Are you sure?” Eskel draws back a little and frowns. “I don’t-”

Geralt waits until Eskel looks at him, tries to catch the gaze from his eye with his own eyes. “I trust you,” he says, when he has Eskel’s full attention. Nothing less and nothing more. He won’t force him, but from his point, there is nothing to fear. Something inside him knows that the spell is gone, broken when Eskel’s own mind had decided to rebel. 

Eskel’s hand creeps forward until it touches Geralt’s, intertwining their fingers. He swallows, tension evident in every line of his body. Geralt waits for him to think, to find his answer. 

Instead of replying, Eskel simply leans forwards and kisses him. 

As much as Geralt would like to pretend that it isn’t, the first touch of their lips is tainted with the memory of what happened last time. But there is nothing now, no whiff of dimeritium, no sudden change in Eskel’s pose or body language, just the warmth caught between them, the feeling of Eskel’s scars against his skin and his smell in Geralt’s nose, of wet earth, grass, leather and just a whiff of celandine, same as always. 

Geralt makes a low sound deep down in his throat and reaches up to cup Eskel’s cheek with his hand. Eskel leans into his touch and grabs Geralt’s shirt with his hand, pulling him closer, deepening their kiss when it becomes clear that there won’t be any unforeseen consequences. It feels good, Geralt realises. 

It feels like Eskel. It feels right. 

_ It feels like home.  _


End file.
